by Sally J. Pla
Ugh!
I squirm in my sticky plastic seat. Liberty turns and stares down the lady across from me, who’s shooting us dirty looks. “Stop staring at him,” she snaps. “Haven’t you seen car sickness before?”
“That’s the trouble, kid,” the lady says, glancing at me nervously. “I have.”
It’s 2:35 p.m. when the bus coughs us out at the zoo parking lot. Time’s a wasting. Because we don’t know what else to do, or where else to go, we join the hordes at the tickets-and-information window.
The people behind us keep knocking the back of my knees with their huge stroller full of drooling infants, and the family ahead has a drooling toddler, too—it keeps staring at us over its father’s shoulder. The line is taking forever. I’m about to explode with impatience, when, suddenly, a burst of music blares over the speakers, and a bunch of costumed mascots come out to entertain the crowd.
A striped tiger holds a sign for the Tiger Trail. A couple of black-and-white pandas show a banner for the panda exhibit. And then this mangy, skinny orange bunny with ridiculous floppy ears strolls out a side gate. He’s not holding any sign—he just stands there, scanning the crowd with his hands on his hips.
I look at Liberty. She looks at me.
“That’s got to be him—Captain Carrot!” she says. “Go on! Go over to him, Stanley!”
I squirm. “That’s your job!”
Liberty puts her hands on her hips. “No way. I’ve done most of the talking all day.”
“So what?” I say, feeling nervous. “I solve the clues, and you do the talking. That’s our deal.”
Liberty scowls at me but she goes over to the rabbit. He has no idea that she’s behind him, so when she taps his shoulder, he jumps a foot in the air. I laugh as I watch her flutter her hands around, talking fast. He stands perfectly still, listening to her explain the Zoo Crew clue. Then the rabbit puts a small piece of paper and a golden coin into Liberty’s hand. She jumps up and down and does a little dance.
And I start to smile.
36
“CAPTAIN RABBIT SAID these free zoo passes are good all day! Plus we’re only the ninth team that’s gotten the Zoo Crew clue so far! Seriously! Can you believe that?”
“His name is Captain Carrot, not Captain Rabbit,” I tell Liberty as we stroll inside the gates, our fifth golden coin tucked safely into her pack. “And that’s great, but let’s not get too excited. There are lots of possible clues,” I say. “It could be that only a small group of us got this one.”
“Or it could be that we’re awesome at this, and we’re going to win those VIP passes!” She gives my shoulder a punch. “Don’t you think? I’m sure of it!”
I’m not sure of anything. It’s already 3:30. We have about ninety minutes to solve this clue and the next one, and then get back down to the plaza before the Quest ends.
And the message on the little card in my hand is pretty cryptic.
It’s to be found
Where Vertebrate DCs
Are flipped around.
“Vertebrate DCs, flipped around? This is the weirdest clue so far. What is DCs? Data Collections? Digital Computers? District of Columbias? Direct Currents?”
“Duck Calls?” Liberty says as we walk past a quacking pond full of them.
I sigh.
“But it’s DCs flipped around,” Liberty says. “So does that mean CDs? Like compact discs? Are we looking for old-fashioned music?”
I snort. “Don’t forget the word ‘Vertebrate.’ Maybe both words get flipped, or written backward. Let’s see. That makes—CD Etarbetrev. Maybe that means something in Latin? Russian?”
Now it’s her turn to snort. “Well, what’s ‘flipped around’ mean? That’s the key. When something’s flipped around, it’s backward, or inside out, or opposite.”
A thought hits me. “Well, backward doesn’t seem to work. So what about opposites?”
“Well,” she says as we cruise past the panda exhibit, “what does vertebrate mean? Having a spine, right? So the opposite is invertebrate.”
“And what about DCs? What’s the opposite of that?” Another flash of an idea hits me. “Maybe we’re supposed to sound it out. DCs. That sounds like . . . Decease. Or disease. A spine disease? Are we looking for a place where there’s a spine disease? Maybe some animal at the zoo has a spinal problem?”
Liberty frowns. “But that doesn’t explain ‘flipped around.’ The opposite of vertebrate is invertebrate—spineless. That’s something, I guess. But what about DCs?”
I have another thought. “Liberty, we’re forgetting this is Trivia Quest. The answer has to have something to do with comics.”
“Yeah, so—?”
“So—DC. As in DC Comics. What’s the opposite, or the opposing comic company, to DC Comics?”
She just looks at me.
“Gah! It’s Marvel, right? DC’s rival comic company. So if we flip DC around to its opposite, we get Marvel. . . .”
I’m getting a headache. The minutes are ticking by.
Liberty runs off to grab a zoo map, and we sit down on a bench to study it. “Let’s just see what’s on here that has to do with invertebrates, or with comics companies,” she says.
I gasp. I see it before she does. A small dot, over by the reptile house, representing an insect exhibit.
According to the map key, the name of the exhibit is Spineless Marvels.
Vertebrate to Spineless.
DCs to Marvels.
That’s got to be it. Here we go.
37
ALL DAY LONG, Liberty’s been texting her mom the same three words: not dead yet. Now, for the first time, as we’re speeding to Spineless Marvels, someone starts texting her back.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“My mom.” She shakes her head, as if to shake off the thought. “She’s such a worrier!” Liberty shoves her phone in her jeans pocket. “I’m putting it away. Okay. Sorry.”
We jog down the path—we have to hurry—but before I know it, she’s stopped again, texting.
“What’s it about?”
She presses her lips into a tight line. “Nothing.”
We jog-walk a bit farther. Liberty’s abnormally silent.
“I’ve just been thinking: Why are cowards called spineless?” I ask, just for something to say. At this point, we’re almost through the children’s zoo, past clumps of kids petting goats. “And why do they say brave people have backbones?”
“I dunno. I think sometimes being brave is being flexible,” she says. “Think of how an octopus changes its shape. I’m not talking Spider-Man’s Dr. Octopus. Just regular octopi. I read about an octopus in Australia that contorted itself all the way down something like a half mile of drainpipe to escape out to the sea.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. So spineless can be brave. There are definitely different kinds of strength,” she says. She exhales hard. “For instance, dealing with my mom? That definitely takes some crazy flexibility. And . . . I hope you can be flexible, too, Stan.” Her eyes are a darker, cloudier green than usual.
I frown. I want to ask what she means, but we’re already standing in front of the insect exhibit. “Well,” Liberty says, “we’re not here for octopi, Stanley. We’re here for bugs. Creepy crawlies. Spineless Marvels.”
Inside, in the dim light, all kinds of hairy-legged monsters scurry and lurk in their tanks. I don’t want to get too close. But Liberty coos at them like they’re kittens. She pulls me over to these little brown ants carrying green leaf parts above their heads like sails. Apparently they chew and spit out leaf gunk into holes underground, to ferment, like spitty leaf-beer.
Ugh.
“Just open your eyes and look at them! Honestly. They are adorable!” she says, yanking me over to the tank. “And look at this one!”
The sign says Jungle Nymph. It’s a bright green leaf eater from Malaysia, almost the length of my forearm. Apparently, it tries to impale enemies with its legs.
Nice.
“Liberty,” I whisper. “It’s already 3:45!”
“So?”
My stomach lurches. “Let’s find the answer to this clue and get out of here!”
“Okay! But would you look at this?” She points to a tank where a brown-shelled monster with a huge head, beady eyes, and tiny teeth rambles around like it’s on fully charged batteries. “Dragon headed katydid. Scariest-looking bug ever—but in reality, completely harmless and friendly.” She nudges me with her elbow. “See? Things can look scary, but actually be fine. Just like today!”
“Today’s not over yet,” I mutter.
Next to the horrific yet harmless katydid is a New Guinea stick insect. It’s got a big, long exoskeleton with barbs or points on it. The sign says they can snap their legs together, or curl their ovipositors—egg-laying parts—and even fling eggs at attackers.
“The ovipositors are overheating, Captain!” Liberty says, waving her arms around. “Eject the dilithium crystals!”
I can’t even laugh. This race against time is starting to get to me. I’m ready to lose it when the back door to the exhibit finally opens and a man in thick glasses and a white lab coat comes in. On his lapel is a name tag that reads Dr. Pym.
Now we’re talking!
“See his lab coat?” I whisper to Liberty. “You know who Hank Pym was, right? Ever hear of Pym Particles? They shrink matter down to microscopic and even submicroscopic size. This guy is the creator of Ant-Man!”
I say the name “Ant-Man” kind of louder than I mean to, and Dr. Pym glances over.
That clinches it.
“Go ask him, Liberty!” I whisper.
“No way,” she says, folding her arms. “I’m not covering for you anymore. Speak up for yourself.”
I try puppy-dog eyes and a little bit of whimpering, but she just folds her arms harder. And the time is ticking.
So I take a deep breath, and walk up to the man in the lab coat.
“Excuse me, sir. Invertebrates are spineless, and DC’s rival is Marvel, and we’re on the Trivia Quest. And it’s an honor to meet the creator of Ant-Man.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and hold out my hand. My heart is thumping, but it’s thumped so much today, I figure I might as well ignore it.
He shakes my hand, gives a little bow, and says, “Excellent work! You have it exactly right, indeed, young man. Why, in fact, Ant-Man is inside that exhibit right now, transmitting important information about the Comic Fest to his leaf-cutter allies.”
He says this so seriously, it’s almost like he believes it. Then Dr. Pym fishes in the deep pockets of his white lab coat, and pulls out a golden token and a small envelope.
“Well done, young entomologists,” he whispers. “You’ve done it! Best be on your way.” He looks at his watch. “It’s almost four o’clock. The time you’ve got left is, shall we say, shrinking dramatically.”
38
WE’VE GOT ONLY one measly hour left to solve our final clue, and then get back down to the finish at the convention plaza. And the travel time alone could take up a half hour. I feel Red Alerts starting to hit me as I race back through the zoo behind Liberty on our way to the exit.
It’s going to be tight. We might not make it. And that thought leaves me more breathless than the running.
When we’re by the bus and shuttle area, I start to rip open our final envelope—but Liberty puts a hand on my arm to stop me.
“Stanley. Wait. I’m really sorry—I wanted to tell you this earlier.” She seems nervous, and keeps looking out at the road. “But I figured I’d wait until you solved the Pym clue so it wouldn’t distract you.”
“Liberty! We have to read this next clue now!”
“No! Hold on.” Liberty tents her hands over her nose and mouth, like she’s afraid to let the words she’s about to say escape her mouth. Finally, she takes her hands away and exhales loudly. “Stanley, sorry to tell you this. But I have to go.”
“What?”
What the heck did she just say?
“I have to go. Back when I was at the park, I felt kind of sick and light-headed, and I stupidly mentioned it to my mom in a text. It was just hunger. Or maybe all that coffee. But what do you know, big surprise, she freaked out. She never wanted me to be running around downtown. So now she’s driving all the way down here—two hours, from LA.”
“Driving down here?” I’m confused.
Liberty cringes and hunches up her shoulders. “To pick me up. She’s almost here.”
I just stare at her. Her words don’t make sense. How can this be? Leave? What is she talking about?
“Hel-LO, Stan? You in there?” She waves her hands in front of my dazed eyes. “I can’t compete with you anymore today. Get it? My mom’s coming to get me. You have to finish the Quest alone.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yeah. Mom’s mad at my uncle; she’s mad at me; she’s convinced this running around was too much.” She shakes her head. “I’m fine! She’s crazy overprotective. I told you. Ever since—”
“—Ever since what? Why is she so overprotective?” I say. “You’re the most independent person I know! Just text your mom back, tell her to wait at your uncle Dan’s. We’re almost done!”
Liberty’s mouth turns into a sad grimace. I think she’s going to cry. “You don’t know her. I can’t change her mind. And besides,” she says, pointing down the drive, “there she is!”
I feel this explosive ball of urgency, fear, and panic starting to boil inside me. I want to shout at her. But she looks so sad and defeated.
We watch a dented old Jeep Wrangler pull up to the curb. A lady with long, bushy red hair sticks her head out the window and yells, “Baby, get in this car right now!”
Liberty and I stare at each other without saying a word. “It’s four p.m., Stan,” she tells me. “Just one more hour. You can do it. Be flexible. Like the octopus. Brave and flexible.”
“Liberty!” shouts her mom. “Make that boy come with us! Both of you get in the car!”
Liberty looks at me. “I’m not gonna make you . . .”
I swallow hard. “I guess I can handle one hour,” I say. But my voice is trembling.
“Good! I’m shooting you brain waves of superpower!” She widens her green eyes until they’re bulging like crazy, and wiggles her fingers at me.
Then she gets in the Jeep and shouts, “Bye, Stanley! I’m so sorry!” as it pulls out with a roar and a puff of black smoke.
So that’s it, then. She’s gone. I’m alone.
I struggle to breathe calmly. To stand up straight. I told her I can handle this. There’s only one more hour in the Quest. I can do it! I can get through it! Right?
Wrong.
Because I’ve just realized something:
Liberty left with all the golden coins.
39
FOR A SPLIT second, I stand there, frozen, as crowds of people brush past. Then a bolt of electric energy shoots through me, and I sprint down the road, charging after that Jeep.
There’s a nice big bright red traffic light up ahead. If I’m lucky, they’re at it.
If I’m unlucky, they’re gone.
I sprint up to the light, checking every car. Not them. Not them. Not them . . .
Them! In the left turn lane, two lanes up from where I’m standing. I have to cross over to the concrete island to get to them—then I bang on the window hard enough to rattle the glass. Liberty’s mother turns, swift and surprised, her mouth a giant O.
With a glance at the red light, she lowers the window, and I notice Liberty’s face, over in the passenger seat, is stained with tears.
“Liberty! The coins!”
Liberty’s mom swears under her breath. “Get out of this intersection before you get hit! I’ll pull over. Just—cross the street over there,” she orders me.
A moment later at the curb, Liberty quickly gets out. Her cheeks are dried but her face is flushed. “Sorry, Stanley,” she says, quickly handing over the tokens and map.
/>
Her mother peers at me over her sunglasses like I’m some sort of threatening strain of bacteria. “I shouldn’t be leaving you here,” she says. “I think you should get in the car. How old are you?”
“Mom!” shouts Liberty, offended. “Stan’s small, but he’s old enough. He can handle it. In fact, Stanley’s one of the bravest kids I know.”
I snort.
“Swear to God. Stanley’s scared of everything, Mom. But he’s sticking it out! Despite his massive insecurities and fears!”
They pull away, with Mrs. Silverberg still shaking her head and muttering. Liberty sticks her hand out the window and makes a power fist.
I’m pretty mad at her, but still, I raise my fist back, my fingers closed tightly around our six golden coins.
Then I’m alone. For good.
40
IT’S 4:05. JUST thinking about that fact makes my stomach lurch.
I’m alone in Balboa Park.
Where do I go from here?
What would John Lockdown do?
Maybe he’d start with first things first. Like: breathing. And zipping the coins into my pack.
And now the final clue. The one from Dr. Pym.
I hold it up with shaking fingers and stare at it. All I see is panicked squiggles. I force my brain to turn them into actual letters and words. Words I need to read. A clue I need to solve. I will keep competing. I will win this thing. Not for Liberty. Not for Joon. Not for Mom. Not even for John Lockdown. But for me now. Just for me.
Faster than a locomotive,
this model citizen
saves his “model” city.
Faster than a locomotive? This is an easy clue! That’s Superman. Bends steel with his bare hands, et cetera. And Superman, just like John Lockdown, is a do-gooder, the Good Guy, the ultimate model citizen. Right?
And model city. San Diego’s motto is “America’s Finest City.” Is a finest city the same thing as a model city?
I’m feeling the deafening silence of no one to talk to about this.
Think. Think think think.
